No Attachments

chapter 25: Going Home

Ashton

The drive back to Florida was bittersweet for me. My dad decided to drive with me, which gave us a chance to catch up. It wasn't until we were able to finally talk that I realized how much I'd missed him. It shocked me to learn he never believed my letter and had known all along I was sick. I knew my absence had hurt him, but he did not try to make me feel bad about it. He expressed that he was glad I was finally able to do something that made me happy. He worked to keep the conversation flowing so that each mile we put between Woodfalls and us wouldn't hurt as much, but no amount of talking could ease that pain. Saying goodbye to Fran and Tressa had been heartbreaking, even with Fran trying to make me laugh through my tears by hitting on my dad.

"Please make sure you call Brittni. She's gonna be crushed knowing she wasn't here when you left," Tressa pleaded.

"I will," I promised. "You stay away from a*sholes. They don't deserve you," I whispered as she pulled me in for a hug. She tried to wipe the tears from her cheeks to no avail.

I turned to Fran who held out her arms. "Thank you for everything," I said.

"Honey, I should be thanking you," she replied. "But I want you to do something for me. Fight. Fight hard. If anybody can beat this, I know it's you. I believe it in my heart."

After swearing to them both that I would come back for a visit when I "beat the cancer's ass," Tressa's words not mine, we loaded up in my car and drove out of town. The hardest part was leaving without saying goodbye to Nathan. Tears had cascaded down my cheeks as my father steered the vehicle onto the highway, leaving Woodfalls and Nathan behind. Writing the letter had of course been another cowardly act on my part. I had stood at the window the previous evening listening to my father and Nathan's conversation. My heart had stuttered before racing out of control when Nathan professed his love for me. At that moment, I knew I would try and fight the cancer, but I couldn't ask him to stand by me if in the end I lost.

Wilma was actually the thing that wound up distracting me from my grief. She made it known right off the bat that she didn't like the carrier we had picked up for her to ride in. We'd barely been on the highway for ten miles when I eventually caved and let her out. Placing her on my lap, I was relieved when she immediately calmed down and curled up in my lap and promptly fell asleep. She was the comfort I needed as I stroked a hand over her furry back.

The trip home was longer than I remembered. I chalked it up to the frequent kitty bathroom breaks. By the time we'd on the road for a few days, I was just ready to be home. I felt completely exhausted, even though I did none of the driving, but even watching the changing landscapes as we drove had become taxing. My dad insisted on driving the entire time. I tried to argue, but the truth is I was grateful. Wilma continued to sleep on my lap, so I let her stay out of her carrier the entire trip. Each mile that separated Nathan and me weighed heavily on me. It seemed impossible to miss someone as much as I missed him. It went beyond the sexual connection we shared. I missed the conversations we shared and how we seemed completely in sync with each other. Maybe all of that had just been an illusion since he was trying to get close to me, but something inside me told me otherwise. By the time we arrived back home, my brain was a muddled mess and I no longer knew what I should believe.

We arrived back in Florida on a balmy eighty-degree day and I acutely missed the cooler temperatures of Woodfalls. Wilma and I settled into my father's house since I had given my apartment up when I had left four months ago. I left my boxes in storage, seeing no point in dragging them out until we knew what we were facing.

Two days after arriving home, I was back at the one place I'd wished I would never have to visit again.

"Ashton, I hear we may have a problem?" Dr. Davis said, entering the room where I was perched atop a paper-covered exam table wearing nothing but a smock.

"I think so," I said as he washed his hands in the small sink.

"Symptoms?" he asked with his back to me.

"Fatigue, loss of appetite, aches and pains and sleepiness," I parroted, fidgeting on the table.

"And you've had these symptoms how long?" he asked, putting his stethoscope to my chest.

"Four and half months," I admitted, waiting for his ridicule.

"I see," he clucked. "Are they the same now or worse?"

"Worse," I answered as he checked my lymph nodes with his fingers.

"Fever?"

"Once, but I think it was just a cold," I answered, fighting to keep my thoughts away from thinking about how Nathan had taken care of me during the fever.

"Possibly, but it could be a sign of something more serious, as I'm sure you're aware of," he said, finishing his exam.

"It's back," I stated.

"I don't like to fry the egg before it's hatched, but your symptoms are troublesome. I also don't like the lump I felt under your right arm. The first step is to do some blood work and biopsy the lump," he said, patting my leg. "You get dressed while I fill out the paperwork. We've fought it before, we'll fight it again."

I nodded, accepting his words. In one swoop, he'd crushed the little bit of hope I had been harboring that I was wrong. I knew the blood work and biopsy were just a formality.

"Are you going to call Nathan?" my father asked when I told him.

I shook my head no before heading to my room before my tears could fall. I found it ironic that for years I had no problem keeping the tears at bay, and now with the mention of one name, I was a mess.

My predictions proved to be true as the results from the blood work and biopsy came in. The lump under my arm was taken out, and I was scheduled to start chemotherapy immediately. Dr. Davis was confident that even though the lump was large, they were able to remove all the cancer cells, but he wanted to treat it with an aggressive round of chemotherapy. Again, my father asked if I was going to call Nathan, but again, I resisted. A week after returning home, I was at the chemo clinic getting my first regimen of chemotherapy. The bitterness I expected to feel when they injected the needle in me was missing. My desire to fight for Nathan made each step that much more important. Instead of viewing the chemo as poison, I looked at it as a lifeline that would help me reach my goal. My optimism didn't change as I kneeled before the toilet puking up everything I ate. I pretended it didn't hurt when the first large chunk of hair fell out while I was brushing my hair. I didn't allow myself to dwell on how I'd been growing my hair out for the last four years, or how Nathan's hands had felt tangled in the strands. Wilma became a source of comfort I would have never thought possible. By October, all my hair was gone and I had lost ten pounds, which made my cheekbones stand out in an alarming way. Thanksgiving was spent in the hospital when my immune system decided to stop working. My time in the hospital floated by in a pain-filled haze as I fought to stay alive. Throughout it all, my father never left my side. He didn't mention calling Nathan this time, knowing this was what I had been trying to spare both of them from witnessing. At one point, in my painkiller-hazed state, I dreamt that Nathan was with me. Even on death's door, I was bitterly disappointed that the dream had to end. I was conscious enough when Dr. Davis told my father to prepare himself for the worst, and still, I fought, willing my body not to give up. Perhaps it was the dream that that gave me the will to fight harder. Three days after Thanksgiving, I was well enough to be wheeled out of ICU and taken to regular room.

"How's my favorite patient?" Dr. Davis said, entering my room the day after I'd been moved from the ICU.

"You only say that because I'm the most stubborn," I joked weakly.

"You are one tough nut," he said, sitting in the chair next to my bed. "So, how are you feeling?"

"Fair," I lied, smiling slightly.

He chuckled. "Does 'fair' now stand for being hit by a cement truck?"

I tried to shrug, but even that was too painful.

"I'll have them increase your pain meds. There's no reason you need to suffer unnecessarily," he said, patting my shoulder before standing up. "You have Nurse Ratchet call me if you need anything," he added, referring to the head nurse no one liked much.

"That would require me actually talking to her," I quipped, making him laugh as he left my room.

"How you doing, pumpkin?" my dad asked, entering my room with his hands full a few minutes after Dr. Davis had left.

"Fair," I said, giving him my standard answer. "What's all that?"

"I figured a few creature comforts from home would make your stay here easier," he said, setting my iPad on the rolling bed tray. "I brought some of those pajama pants you like to sleep in and a few t-shirts I found in your dresser," he added, placing the stack of clothes on the nightstand.

My eyes zeroed in on the stack of clothes as I spotted a familiar navy blue t-shirt that had been buried at the bottom of my dresser. The fact that he had to dig for it wasn't lost on me, although if he knew the significance of the shirt, he didn't show it. It didn't belong to me, but that didn't stop me from taking it when I had found it in my laundry basket when I packed up my stuff at the cabin. At the time, I had pressed it to my face, smelling the cologne Nathan wore with a touch of his masculinity. When we had arrived home, I had stowed it away and only allowed myself to remove it when the pain of missing him began to engulf me. Everything in me yearned to press it to my face now, but I knew it would raise questions if I asked my father to hand it to me. Not to mention, he would probably think I was a freak if I sniffed my shirt.

"How's Wilma?" I asked.

"She misses you. I debated sneaking her in, but figured Nurse Dictator would have my head if I tried."

"Are you feeding her twice a day?"

"Yes, and giving her those treats you buy that she likes so much. She's been sleeping with me while you've been away," he said sheepishly.

"I'm glad. She likes to snuggle," I said. "Shouldn't you be at work?" I asked as it dawned on me that he was in my room during the middle of the day. "Dad?" I said as he ignored my question.

"I took a leave of absence," he finally admitted.

"Dad you didn't have to do that," I protested.

"Ashton we almost lost you this week. How do you think I would have felt if I was at work and something happened to you? Truthfully, I'm debating early retirement. That way I can help take care of you."

"And what will you do when I no longer need to be taken care of?" I asked as some of my optimism returned.

"I'll fish."

"Fish?' I quizzed. "When have you ever wanted to fish?"

"I've recently discovered deep-sea fishing is quite the pastime."

"When have you ever gone deep-sea fishing?" I asked, skeptically.

"I've gone out a couple times with a buddy of mine."

"I didn't know you even liked to fish," I said.

"That's because I really never gave it a chance. I've discovered it can be very relaxing, almost like meditation without all the mumbo jumbo."

"Retirement though? Won't you get bored? You've always been such a computer nerd."

"I'm ready for a change, and the upside is I'll be there for you," he said.

"Dad, I don't want you to shackle yourself to me," I mumbled.

"Honey, when you were sick before, it somehow became all about me. I allowed my grief and fear of losing your mom to cloud my senses. I burdened you by wearing my grief on my sleeve. Even though you were sick as a dog, you continued to console me. This time it's my turn. I'm going to be the strong one," he said, unfolding my favorite blanket from home and spreading it out over me.

I was touched at his thoughtfulness. He'd always been a good father, making sure all my basic needs were taken care of, but after my mom died, he'd closed himself off emotionally, always keeping me at arm's length. It was a nice feeling for him to be so attentive.

"Thanks, Dad," I said as he tucked the blanket around me. My limited energy melted away and I fell asleep to him smoothing a hand across my hairless head.